me see your work?’
It would be churlish to refuse. And though her scribbling was nothing like the work she’d once achieved it would be no worse than that of a raw beginner.
She took a step towards him, then paused, unsure of those two horses. This close they looked large and spirited, as if they might shy or, worse, bite.
‘No need to fear. Layla and Soraya have excellent manners. They bite no one, not even the hand that feeds them.’
‘And that’s you?’ she asked as she edged closer.
‘It is. But that’s only one of the reasons they love me, isn’t it, my sweets?’ He leaned down as he spoke and the horses whickered in response. Then he urged his mount forward and suddenly Rosalie found herself surrounded, a mare on either side. Warmth engulfed her. A damp horsey smell that was somehow earthy and comforting. And something else, less tangible, that teased her nostrils. It intensified as he reached towards her sketch-book. Tangy, salt and spice: the scent of man.
Rosalie’s nostrils flared and she took a step back, bumping into a horse. She looked up and met his hooded eyes. The gleam she read there disturbed her.
‘Show me?’ he murmured and again she felt his voice slip like a velvet ribbon across her skin. She frowned, uneasy and suddenly tense.
‘Of course.’ Concentrate on the sketches. Easier said than done when she was hemmed in, increasingly aware of…something. Something about him that jolted her out of her comfort zone.
She lifted the large sketch-book and flipped over a few pages. What she saw there arrested her, banishing unease and doubt in an instant. The first sketch, of the horses heading into the water, was raw, rough and spare but it caught precisely the effect she’d sought: their elegance of movement and proud bearing.
Without waiting for him to comment, she slid her hand under the page and flipped it over. Another sketch—that distinctive arch of the neck, the wide nostrils and dark eyes. Alive, real, better than anything she’d done in all these days of trying. Another sketch—a blur, a fleeting yet effective impression of movement and another, of horse and man moving centaur-like out of the water.
She caught her breath.
‘You’re very talented,’ he said above her and she was so stunned by what she saw that she said nothing, only turned another page, to find herself staring at hands, his hands, long and square-knuckled and strong. The sharp outline of masculine shoulder, a hint of corded neck and decisive chin and, in the background, a couple of lines that somehow gave the impression of the castle on the hill.
‘Very talented,’ he said, breaking her absorption.
‘Thank you.’ In her surprise at what she’d produced Rosalie forgot to avoid his gaze and found herself looking up into the dark abyss of his stare. Even this close his eyes were black. How near would she need to be to discern their true colour?
‘You don’t mind me sketching you? The horses are so beautiful I couldn’t resist.’
He leaned closer and she swallowed hard, wondering what was going on behind those unreadable eyes. That was no casual glance. It looked…assessing.
‘I’m honoured you chose Layla and Soraya as your subjects.’ Arik forbore to mention the drawings of himself. She looked skittish enough already, eyes wide and dazed as if she’d never seen a man before. Yet those sketches confirmed she knew how a man was made. Surely that appreciation of form and detail meant she had a strong sensual awareness.
Instantly anticipation fired his blood and he had to concentrate on schooling his expression to one of mild interest.
His first glance at her this morning had left him disappointed. She’d looked so young—far too young for what he had in mind. But as he’d ridden closer he’d been relieved to find her air of fragility wasn’t due to extreme youth, though she had to be only in her early twenties. There was a firmness around her lush mouth, and more, a gravity in her eyes that told him she was no innocent.
His relief had been a physical force, washing over him in a wave that eased the tension in his shoulders.
‘Do you prefer landscapes or living subjects?’
The way her eyes darted down to his torso, his hands on the reins, gave him all the answer he wanted, and an idea.
‘I…both.’ She closed the large pad and turned away, pretending to concentrate on Soraya, who was snuffling at her sleeve in hopes of a treat. But Arik saw the furtive glance his golden girl sent him from under lowered lids. How could he not when she had eyes as mysterious as smoke on water, a green-grey at once enticing and secretive? He felt that glance with the keenness of a blade, sharp and sure against his flesh.
He wanted to vault down to stand beside her. Close enough to enfold her in his arms and feel her warmth.
But, he admitted to himself, he was too proud. If he dismounted his stiff leg would mean he’d have trouble remounting again. He probably shouldn’t be riding at all, not yet, but he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to meet her at last, no matter what the doctor’s warnings.
He’d already noted her bare ring finger but it made sense to be sure. ‘You’re here on holiday?’
Slowly she nodded and then turned to stuff the portfolio into a capacious bag. ‘Yes.’
‘And your husband doesn’t mind you venturing out alone?’ If she were his he’d keep her close, knowing that with those stunning looks she’d be a magnet for any male not on his deathbed.
She paused, her hands gripping the bag so tightly he saw her knuckles whiten. ‘I don’t have a husband.’ Her voice sounded muffled and he recognised strong emotion in her tone. A disagreement with the boyfriend about long term commitment? Disappointment seared through him.
‘Your significant other, then. He doesn’t mind?’
She straightened and jammed her fists on to her hips. Her eyes flashed green fire and he realised he’d hit a nerve.
‘Your English is excellent.’ It was almost an accusation.
‘Thank you,’ he said, watching her intently.
Eventually she shrugged and her gaze slid away. ‘There is no man to object to anything I do.’ There was something in her voice, a bitterness that caught his attention. ‘I suppose that’s unusual in a country like Q’aroum?’
‘You may be surprised to learn how independent Q’aroumi women are.’ His own mother was a case in point.
He smiled and saw with satisfaction that the attraction was definitely not one-sided. So all he had to do was give her the opportunity and soon he’d be enjoying the delights of her warm, willing body. Yet something about her air of caution, as if she were ready to flee at the slightest provocation, tempered his impatience.
‘I will look forward to seeing you another morning.’ He made as if to pull on the reins.
‘You’ll be back here tomorrow?’ Her eyes were bright, her tone a shade too eager. It told him all he needed to know.
